Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

by Andrea Bennett

  He had tossed and turned for hours the previous night, his head full of doubts, but then he had come to some conclusions, and once that was done, he had slept like the dead, straight through. It was only Katya’s knock around ten a.m. that had brought him to a gluey consciousness. He was aware that he had dreamt and that the dreams had been deep and threatening, but the details scampered away like mice from a hungry cat when he awoke. He had washed, shaved and combed his hair according to his usual schedule as best he could, but the results were patchy and not at all pleasing: stubble remained in red raw clumps on the tender bruises about his face, and a ridge in the middle of his hair stuck up like a little coxcomb no matter how much water he applied to it. He had dressed, slowly and painfully, in the new clothes bought at the commission shop the previous afternoon: blue T-shirt, white knee-length shorts, white socks, and then his brown lace-up casual shoes. He had a vague suspicion that the shoes didn’t go. He would have liked to have asked Katya, but felt he shouldn’t. She had not said anything about his attire: but then, she did not know that it had all been bought with her in mind.

  Mitya still ached. In fact, every particle in his body seemed to be raw and swollen. He could not fit sunglasses over his bruised eyes, so he opted for a sunhat, leant to him by Katya. He would take it off upon their arrival at the remand institution: it was orange, purple and white and bedecked in psychedelic swirls, and Mitya suspected it was too small for him.

  ‘So!’ said Katya with a brightness to challenge the sun. Conversation in the car had been a little lacking.

  ‘So,’ croaked Mitya, looking out of the window at nothing.

  ‘We’re going to the SIZO, puppy, like you wanted.’

  ‘It’s not something I want, Katya. It’s just … necessary.’

  ‘OK. Can you tell me why?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Give me a hint?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I have some unfinished business.’

  ‘Is it a crim, who owes you something? Are you going to threaten him? Blackmail, maybe? You have to know, I’m not sure I like that kind of thing. It’s not very nice. It can get you in to trouble. Believe you me, I’ve—’

  ‘Blackmail?’ Mitya looked at a cow, standing forlorn in a parched field, flicking its ragged tail among the flies that buzzed around its haunches. ‘Well, that’s a fine idea.’

  ‘But, you know, you shouldn’t really get involved in that kind of thing, I don’t—’

  ‘There’s always money to be made, Katya. It’s just that old Mitya here never seems to be at the money-making end of things. Maybe I should give it a try, I don’t know: it seems to work for policemen, after all.’

  ‘But technically, puppy, I think it is illegal.’ Katya was frowning. ‘Blackmail, that is. I know everyone does it, but I’m just saying. It’s not a friendly thing to do.’

  ‘Katya, I’m teasing you! I’m sorry, you didn’t get my joke.’ Mitya looked forlornly at his knees.

  ‘Oh, OK – you were joking? Ha! Well, Mitya, good for you!’

  Mitya smiled, then stopped, as his bottom lip split again and his tongue curled under the metallic taste of blood. The little car traversed a pothole the size of Siberia and flung both its passengers up in the air till their heads touched the roof, and then back in to their seats until their coccyxes kissed the floor. Mitya bit his bleeding lip as pain lurched from his buttocks up through his stomach and all the way to his aching head.

  ‘Oops!’ said Katya, struggling to keep her hands on the wheel.

  ‘OK, stop the car. I think I have to stretch my legs. Right now, Katya!’

  They pulled over on to the side of the track, into the cool shade of a linden tree. The sudden stillness washed over them, until Katya began to speak.

  ‘It’s beautiful here. We should have brought a picnic. That would make you feel better, puppy. Some sausage and black bread, hard-boiled eggs, tea. Maybe a little bonfire and some shashliks? You know, when I was little, my Uncle Borya took us to the woods every week and …’

  Mitya nodded absently and made his way into a little green copse to pee in peace. Katya liked to chat, and he liked it too, but this morning he needed a little quiet to clear his head. He felt the summer all about him in this little copse, verdant and seething. A small blue butterfly landed on the back of his hand as he stood, swaying slightly, peeing into the vegetation. He felt the vague tickle of its body on his skin and looked closer, his eyes taking in its tiny papery wings and bobbing antennae. Instead of brushing it off, he gently raised his hand to eye level and looked at it, face-to-face, man-to-man … being-to-being.

  ‘Why?’ said Mitya. ‘Why are we here?’ The butterfly opened its wings, and then slowly closed them. ‘What is it all for?’ The butterfly uncoiled its proboscis slightly on to Mitya’s damp skin. He was filled, all at once, with the strong impression, strong like the smell of lavender in clothes drawers, or bleach on toilet floors, that he had met this butterfly before. There was something familiar in its gaze, in the way it licked his hand, something that spoke to him through its silence, through the deliberate opening and closing of its wings, the uncoiling and re-coiling of its proboscis. The butterfly cocked its head slightly, and raised one tiny leg.

  ‘Sharik?’ breathed Mitya, and his swollen eyes filmed over with tears. The butterfly opened its wings, caught the breeze and gently fluttered into the air above his head. Dancing for a few moments before his eyes, it gained height, bobbing towards the branches of the tree as they, in turn, nodded downwards to meet it. The sunhat fell from Mitya’s head on to the wet grass. His eyes searched the branches for the butterfly, but it had disappeared into the green canopy above. Sunlight filtered through the branches and enveloped Mitya in a warm honey glaze. His heart swelled and filled his chest.

  The butterfly silence faded as Katya’s story-telling broke through the skin of his consciousness like a pebble into a woodland pond. Her voice called him back. Mitya shivered slightly in the sunshine, picked a frond of long green grass to chew, and followed Katya’s call out of the copse and back towards the dusty dirt track.

  ‘—And do you know what? She was never the same again! Just the sight of a melon was enough to do it! Of course he apologised, but still. Are you OK, puppy?’ Katya stopped talking and eyed him quizzically. ‘Where’s your hat?’

  ‘Who says we’re better than butterflies, Katya?’

  The girl was stumped by the question for a moment.

  ‘Who says a man’s life is worth more than that of an … an ant, for example? Why is a human worth more than a dog? Why are there different rules for the animals and us, Katya?’

  ‘Are there different rules, Mitya? Just treat everything and everyone properly, and everything will be OK, puppy.’

  ‘Everything and everyone?’

  ‘Yeah, well, you know. Just be good, I guess.’

  ‘Be good. Yes. But what about dirt?’

  ‘What about it, Mitya? It’s kind of in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it? Well, it’s not actually in your eye, obviously. Pigs love it, old ladies mostly don’t. Whatever makes you happy, I guess, as long as you hurt no-one else. Where’s my hat, hun?’

  ‘But animals make dirt. Disorder. That’s what I … I can’t abide. Can animals be orderly, do you think?’

  ‘Animals have their own order, Mitya: they’re animals. They have their own code. They do what comes naturally, until humans get in the way. It’s only humans you have to watch out for. It’s only humans who murder and torture, after all.’

  They stared at each other for a moment across the bonnet of the car.

  ‘That’s very clever, Katya.’

  ‘I’m a clever girl, puppy. Now, where’s my hat?’

  ‘I left it in the copse. It fell off. I couldn’t bend down to get it. I’m sorry.’

  Katya leant over to ruffle his hair, her fingernails light over his scalp. Then she set off to the copse to retrieve her hat. Mitya looked up for his butterfly in the branches of the linden, squinting
in the sun as it prodded at his eyes through the protective green leaves. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. He could feel it.

  ‘It’s wet, honey. What did you do to it? Did you pee in it? There was really no need—’

  ‘Katya, I need to tell you something.’ Mitya’s tone was urgent

  ‘What is it? Did you pee in it? You didn’t!’ Katya giggled, one hand to her mouth.

  ‘No, listen. It’s something … important.’ Mitya swallowed. His hands were shaking as if an internal earthquake were taking place.

  ‘OK, puppy. I’m your friend: you can tell me something important.’ She looked at him with her clear, wide eyes and a slight frown.

  ‘You know I’m an exterminator, right?’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘You think I kill cockroaches and things, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s not right.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Actually I … er …’

  ‘What?’

  Katya stopped, and turned her head slightly as she heard a distant but rapidly nearing roar. Something big was coming along the track towards them, from the direction of town, kicking up clouds of dust and flies.

  ‘I kill dogs.’ It came out as a mutter, completely lost under the roar of the approaching engine.

  ‘What did you say?’ Katya turned back to him, mouth open.

  Mitya lurched towards her and grabbed her arm just as an ancient red tractor rounded the corner behind them.

  ‘I kill dogs!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.

  The tractor roared round the bend and lurched up the track, throwing dried mud and husks over the little car and scattering wildlife as it went.

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Dogs … I am … a controller … of canine infestations.’

  There was a long pause. Katya shook her arm free of his and twisted her hands in front of her, then picking at a hangnail, and then biting it sharply.

  ‘But you—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Katya. I tried to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Look at me?’

  She looked at him with eyes that burnt.

  ‘All my life, it seemed like the right thing to do. Well, not quite all my life. But it seemed to be … my calling. I couldn’t bear to see dogs roaming the streets. Dogs, for me, meant disease, pain, fear.’

  ‘But you were saving those puppies the other night.’

  ‘Katya …’

  ‘You were saving them, yes?’

  Mitya looked up into the tree and saw a flutter of blue wings.

  ‘Katya, I … I wasn’t saving them. I was going to gas them.’

  She let out a small ‘Oh!’ and turned away from him.

  ‘But I didn’t, Katya! I saved them … because … something changed. I can’t explain.’

  ‘Try, Mitya. Try very hard to explain.’ Her voice was hard as winter, the soft lisp all gone, her eyes like chips of ice.

  ‘You were so tender with them. They reached for you like … like furry babies. And it reminded me about … things I haven’t thought about for years. When I was a child. And I remembered what it’s like to care. And suddenly I felt sorry for them. And I realized that it’s not their fault.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s not their fault. It’s ours.’

  ‘Katya, please … be my friend. Forgive me. I’ll explain everything to you properly later; I’ll answer all your questions, but just believe me: I won’t do it anymore. I’ll give up being Mitya the Exterminator.’

  Katya frowned, ‘Well, that’s a fine aim, Mitya, but who will you be instead?’

  Mitya thought for a moment, eyes probing the leaves and branches of the swaying tree above them.

  ‘I will be … a defender of animals. I will become … a defender of human kind, Katya, and of human kindness. I will … I will become a vet.’

  ‘A vet? Really?’ Katya squeaked, a smile splashing across her face despite herself, before it disappeared just as quickly. ‘You’re not serious. You’re trying to fool me. You don’t really want to be a vet.’

  ‘No, really. I am serious. I can do it. I was thinking about it all last night. My teachers always told me to use my skills for good … it’s not too late, is it?’

  ‘Well … I don’t know. Perhaps it’s never too late, Mitya? We all have to hope.’

  ‘Will you … can you forgive me, little girl? I promise I will never mislead you again. It is not something I wanted … to hurt you.’

  ‘Do you swear? That you will help animals, not hurt them?’

  ‘Yes I swear.’

  ‘And are you really my friend, Mitya?’

  ‘Yes, I swear, I’m really your friend.’

  Katya took Mitya’s face in both her hands.

  ‘Then I am your friend. I forgive you. But don’t ever take me for a fool again.’

  Mitya took Katya’s hands from his face and kissed both palms. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘OK, well, we’d better … we’d better get on for the SIZO. It’s nearly midday. And you have business.’ Katya led Mitya back to the car, and climbed into the driver’s seat. She spun the wheels, and the little car hopped back on to the dusty track, a plume of brown rising into the summer sky.

  High up in the linden tree, the butterfly opened its wings, and closed them again, and sighed.

  22

  Rov Avia

  ‘So, Zoya, are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, Galia, dearest, a little better, thank you.’ Zoya nodded carefully and shuffled her shoulders further into the nylon embrace of the airplane’s seat, looking small and old and frail.

  It is true to say, Zoya had milked her indisposition for everything it was worth upon embarking on the process of taking her flight. She insisted on being provided with a wheelchair to bump her across the tarmac to the rather dog-eared Tu-154 that awaited them, and Galia thought at one point that she was going to insist on being carried up the steps to the plane’s passenger door too. However, happily for all concerned, a large and jolly baggage handler with last-night’s vodka still in his eyes had gently taken her arm and floated her up the stairs before she realized what was happening, popping her in through the passenger door rather like a magician producing a coin from behind an unsuspecting audience member’s ear. She had been left temporarily speechless, much to Galia’s relief.

  Once on board, contrary to Galia’s promise, there were no little paper hand towels, or nuts, but there was beer, and Zoya availed herself of it as soon as the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign had been snuffed out and the stewardess had squeezed herself along the gangway. The other passengers were mostly businessmen returning to the south following long-winded negotiations, or bare-knuckle bar fights. Galia was relieved to see that there was no livestock in the cabin on this flight. She had never forgotten one experience on the way back from the Urals when a number of geese had escaped their cage, which had been on the luggage rack above her head. Her hair had taken weeks to recover, and she still couldn’t look a goose in the eye. But times had moved on. Geese were now confined to the hold, or the toilet, depending on the airline.

  ‘So, my dear, if you are feeling a little restored, I need to talk to you: about Pasha.’

  ‘What do you mean, my dear?’ Zoya replied, eyes watering as she put down her can and burped delicately on to the back of her translucent hand.

  ‘I had a talk with Grigory Mikhailovich, Zoya, at the airport, and it wasn’t very nice.’

  Zoya was utterly still for a moment. ‘Why not?’

  ‘From what I could make out, Zoya, he said,’ Galia paused, not quite believing she was saying the words, ‘he said, you told him that Pasha was a spy.’ Her friend’s head vibrated slightly on her neck with a slight cracking noise.

  ‘I didn’t!’ Zoya’s answer was immediate and firm.

  ‘A spy!’

  ‘No, Galia, that’s nonsense!’ Zoya began to laugh, and then the laugh became a cackle, and her tiny bony fingers
made little crackling indents on the can of beer in her hand. Her eyes disappeared within a nest of wrinkles beneath her brows and she guffawed so hard that the rows of grey heads in front began to turn towards them with curiosity and some annoyance.

  ‘It’s not funny, Zoya. That’s what Grigory Mikhailovich said.’

  ‘Oh, Galia, can’t you spot an old fool when you see one? He can hardly remember what day it is, let alone anything else.’ Zoya continued giggling, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘And he is also a Scorpio, Galia: supposed to be wise, but mark my words, they are generally bullshitters of the first order, my dear.’

  ‘So now you’re saying he’s lying?’

  ‘Not lying, Galia, that is an awful word. But quite possibly … very confused.’

  ‘Demented?’

  ‘Well, maybe. Oh look – some houses, with little piggies running in the yard!’ Zoya leant further towards the window and away from Galia, tapping her gnarled finger on the Perspex.

  ‘This is serious, Zoya! Be quiet about piggies!’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Galia. It doesn’t become you. And I like piggies.’ Zoya took another gulp from her can of beer.

  ‘Two days ago, Zinaida Artyomovna, your cousin was going to be our saviour, then he neglected to come to the ministry to meet us.’

  ‘Now, that’s not strictly, true, he—’

  ‘And now, now he’s a demented old liar. That’s a startling turnaround, isn’t it? What is he, Zoya?’

  Zoya harrumphed a little and continued looking out of the window, her beady eyes constant on the middle distance. Eventually, she spoke.